


You're My Home

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Caretaking, Fanart, Fear, Gen, Healing, Includes Art, Inspired by Fanfiction, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Canon, Spud Omens, dog attack, undeclared love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26211904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Aziraphale's first time behind the wheel is a great deal more stressful than either he or Crowley could have anticipated. A story and artwork inspired by "Take Me Home" by atmilliways
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 56
Collections: Choofe Your Faces





	You're My Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atmilliways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Take Me Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20050840) by [atmilliways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/atmilliways). 



> For my darling atmilliways! I was hugely inspired by your work "Take Me Home" so I had to create both art AND a story for you! The story is pretty much just a reimagining of your premise in my own words. It was such a compelling idea, I hope you enjoy it!

“Crowley!” Aziraphale hears himself screaming, already running across the park towards where Crowley lies on the ground.

The hell hound snarls and lunges again, its jaws open wide to bite and shake Crowley to pieces. Somewhere along the way, Aziraphale has dropped the ice creams he was fetching. His hand is reaching ahead as he runs and, with a sweep of his arm, the vile creature tumbles away from Crowley.

There are too many people around but Aziraphale can’t risk the animal making another attack. He’s beside Crowley when he snaps his fingers, banishing the hell hound to a remote, uninhabited island. If any bystanders notice, he doesn’t care because Crowley looks a lot worse up close.

His face is grey and pale, drawn into a grimace of pain. There’s a lot of blood on his hands and clothes, seeping out into the grass.

“Crowley, how can I help?” Aziraphale asks, hearing the panic in his own voice.

Glassy eyes roll up to meet his gaze, Crowley seems to be having trouble focusing.

“Hello angel, can we go home?” His voice is quiet, worryingly weak.

“Yes, yes, of course.” People have gathered around now, murmuring and trying to make suggestions. Aziraphale just needs to get Crowley away from here, back to somewhere safe. “Hold on to me, if you can.”

He tries to loop Crowley’s arms around his neck, urging him to hold on when Aziraphale lifts him but his strength is failing and his arms slide back down. Crowley whimpers in pain.

“It’s alright, dear, I’ve got you well enough.” Aziraphale stands easily, cradling Crowley against him.

“Bleeding on you,” Crowley complains quietly, his fingers twitching in a fruitless attempt at banishing the stains.

“Never you mind about that,” Aziraphale says firmly, “let’s just get you somewhere safe.”

The Bentley is parked right by the park gate despite that not being where Crowley had left it, the passenger door already open and the seat folded forward.

“Thank you, old girl,” Aziraphale mutters as he leans in to deposit Crowley across the back seat.

There’s already a policeman approaching, looking fierce, and it’s probably about this strictly enforced “No Stopping” zone that they’re parked in. Aziraphale flicks his wrist and turns the officer around, buying just enough time for him to get into the driver’s seat.

“Aziraphale, what?” Crowley manages to protest from the back. “You can’t drive.”

“Well, neither can you right now,” Aziraphale snaps back, his nerves fraying. “So, unless you want to have to explain all of this to a paramedic, I suggest you accept this turn of events.”

Crowley goes quiet and Aziraphale feels so bad that he has to turn around to check on him. His skin is waxy now and Aziraphale can see the way he’s shivering. These human corporations are just as susceptible to shock as the real thing, Aziraphale knows that all too well.

“Alright, car, I’m going to need your help,” he says, turning back to the steering wheel.

The Bentley’s engine revs in response, which is a relief as Aziraphale isn’t certain how to start the ignition.

“We need to get to the bookshop and I don’t know how to operate you. You’re a good car; I know you can do this.”

Crowley groans, although Aziraphale can’t tell if it’s from pain or a reaction to the way he’s talking to the car. He supposes that he should be grateful that Crowley can make any noises at all.

Looking down at all the levers and pedals, Aziraphale tries to remember what he’s seen Crowley do countless times before. He closes his hand around what he thinks is a handbrake and is gratified to feel it move under his hand. Pressing a foot to one of the pedals, the car makes a slightly crunchy noise and begins to roll forward.

If he weren’t so concerned for Crowley’s welfare, Aziraphale might have allowed himself a show of delight at successfully negotiating with the motor vehicle. As it is, he simply grips the steering wheel and pushes the pedal down further.

There’s no denying that the car does most of the work, compensating for Aziraphale’s wild steering and his complete disregard for the gearbox, but getting through central London is a trial at the best of times and the Bentley isn’t used to acknowledging road laws or traffic signals. As such, Aziraphale is thoroughly rattled by the time they come to a halt outside the bookshop. It’s all he can do to climb out, pat the roof of the car, and extract a very quiet Crowley from the backseat.

The front door of the bookshop swings open as Aziraphale approaches, either anticipating his need or responding to his command, he’s never really sure how these things work.

Crowley’s eyes open briefly, alarming Aziraphale with their sickly colour.

“No, I said home,” he protests quietly.

“This is just as much your home, you are safe here,” Aziraphale soothes.

Crowley doesn’t answer and Aziraphale tries not to think about what that might mean. He lays Crowley down on the old sofa beside his desk, trying to make him comfortable. Aziraphale’s front is sticky with blood, soaking through three different layers of fabric to his skin.

“I’m going to try to heal you, Crowley,” he explains, not sure if Crowley can even hear him. “If it gets to be too much, just squeeze my hand. Can you do that?” He takes Crowley’s hand in his, wrapping Crowley’s cold fingers around his palm. “Can you try to squeeze?”

He almost weeps with joy when Crowley’s fingers twitch, tightening his grasp ever so slightly. The risk of discorporation when they are both cut off from their former sides has been worrying Aziraphale for weeks, but he didn’t think it would become an urgent worry quite so soon.

“That’s very good, very good, Crowley. Just hold on for me, all right? Don’t leave me here alone.”

He forces himself to stop speaking before he says something he can’t take back, something they aren’t ready to face.

With his free hand, Aziraphale peels back Crowley’s shirt to expose the wounds underneath. He holds his palm over the worst one, a ragged looking tear from Crowley’s throat to his chest, and concentrates on knitting together the torn flesh. Golden light spills out around his hand and Crowley’s back arches into it. He hisses in pain, Aziraphale knows that the holy energy must be uncomfortable but he hasn’t another option. At least Crowley doesn’t squeeze his hand, bearing the torment as well as he can.

Aziraphale moves as quickly as he can, finding the balance between healing Crowley’s injuries and wounding him worse with holy power. He knows that Crowley isn’t going to just hop up at any moment, that his recovery will likely take a few days at least, but he does allow himself to relax a little when Crowley’s breathing grows deeper, settling into a steady rhythm.

Once the bleeding has stopped, and the wounds are holding closed, Aziraphale strips off Crowley’s bloodied clothes. He gently cleans Crowley’s skin, grateful to feel the warmth returning as he touches Crowley’s body.

Unsure if it will make any difference, Aziraphale summons a number of bandages and gauze in order to wrap Crowley’s injuries. He’s done this so many times for so many humans over the years, it shouldn’t upset him so to do it now. But Crowley hasn’t spoken in some minutes and Aziraphale is facing the reality of how close he came to losing the only being that understands him.

Heavy teardrops splash onto Crowley’s bandages and a sob sticks in Aziraphale’s throat. He slumps to the floor in a heap, a collapsed pile of distraught angel no longer capable of supporting his own weight. The tears become a flood and the sobs shake his body.

Crowley is _everything_ to him. All the pleasures of Earth are nothing compared to the companionship of this one demon. Losing him simply isn’t an option. Aziraphale allows himself to grieve for what he almost lost, not trying to make sense of his emotions.

With his head buried in his arms, Aziraphale feels something stroking his fingers. He looks up just in time to see Crowley grasp his hand and squeeze. Crowley’s still painfully pale and awfully weak, but he smirks at Aziraphale as he squeezes his fingers again.

“You crying over me is too much,” he explains, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Aziraphale presses a kiss to the back of Crowley’s hand, too overwrought to care about how it looks.

“I know, you wouldn’t leave me. I was just so afraid for you. For both of us.”

Crowley shivers involuntarily and Aziraphale leaps into action, pulling a blanket from the back of the sofa and tucking it around Crowley’s slender body.

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley says, rather weakly. “Sit with me for a while?”

Aziraphale is one of the strongest beings on the planet, but he would never have the strength to deny a request like that. He sits beside Crowley, gently stroking his hair until he’s sleeping peacefully. 

**Author's Note:**

> Go check out atmilliways' story "Take Me Home" now! It's linked at the top.


End file.
